


True Gods of Sound and Stone

by jackmarlowe



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plausible Fluff, and that's debatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackmarlowe/pseuds/jackmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie's in Dublin single-handedly ending the Troubles, and Malcolm can't sleep with him taking all the credit.</p><p>For the TTOI ficfest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Gods of Sound and Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benjycompson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/benjycompson/gifts).



> Ben's already done the 'plausible fluff' prompt but this is a several-months-old thing I've cleaned up a bit so it doesn't really count. This is for him, as he's having a long week.
> 
> This is set just before where I think the series begins, i.e. in May 2005 during the Dublin-Belfast-London negotiations of the terms of the IRA's disarmament.

Malcolm’s a practiced insomniac but rarely annoyed at his own inability to sleep – no point, after so many years in government. Tonight he’s irritated because he knows, and feels, acutely, it’s the lack of Jamie that’s itching his eyelids and stirring his limbs beneath the cool sheets. Jesus fucking sentimental shite.

Malcolm gets up at two o’clock for a drink of water. He ends up turning on the bathroom light and studying his own haggard face sharp in the mirror, leaning heavily on the sink in Jamie’s fucking Proclaimers T-shirt and boxers. There are profound bruises under his eyes, gone from green to pale greyish with exhaustion; he can trace the stubble standing out against his underbelly-white, stretched skin and razor-grey hair, sticking up at angles; even with his lips slightly parted, tongue resting just behind his front teeth as he narrows his eyes trying for a glare, Malcolm can make out the frown-lines. Lot of fucking wrinkles for someone who’s been off coke for sixteen years, and he’d tell Jeremy Kyle that for free.

He usually never lets himself look this long. The job is no walking fucking advert for anti-aging skin cream. Malcolm abruptly yanks the tap on, splashes water on his face two-handed, rough, and rubs hard at the lines anyway.

If Jamie were here – well, he ain’t.

But he settles in, and soon after his landline rings in the black-out dark, and he’s not surprised and a little relieved when he sees the number lit up on the little neon screen.

‘If you’re pissed, fuck off.’

‘I’m no’ pissed.’ He sounds it, a little, but it’s manageable slurring – Malcolm reckons five pints. He closes his eyes and rolls onto his back, crooking the phone against his ear. ‘Why’re you awake?’

‘Why’re you fucking calling me if you were expecting me to be asleep?'

‘Because I wanted to hear you say _why_.’ Jamie chuckles, a close burst of static. He sounds like he’s by himself, not out at the pub or walking back – already at the hotel. Malcolm licks his lips slowly.

‘How’re the Irish?’

‘Bunch of big fucking dumb pricks. No fucking soldiers here – this lot, all from fucking Dalkey, all sounding like they’re trying to squeeze out a massive Chelsea shite through their fucking teeth.’ Malcolm smirks; Jamie pauses and scoffs, like he still can’t quite believe he wasted his _time_ with these cunts in the name of diplomacy and putting an End At Last to the Troubles, which he could’ve probably done himself over breakfast with a few strategically-bought drinks and a plate of hashbrowns. ‘But I met up with a few mates this evening – you remember McClaren? And his lads, who used to work for Doncaster North? We had two of them in the office for a while back in ‘98.’

‘Yeah?'

‘Oh, proper fucking craic. You would’ve loved it.’

‘Would I?’ Malcolm wonders, wry. ‘I haven’t been out in about seven years.’

‘Don’t I fucking know it. Nah, you have, I wouldnae stand for it otherwise. And you’d like it, you always like Ireland.’

Not as much as Jamie always likes Ireland, but Jamie loves most things about three times more wholeheartedly and entire, not least of which Malcolm himself.

They pause, breathing on other ends of the line.

‘I can’t fucking sleep,’ Malcolm says, quietly.

‘I know.’

‘Don’t be so fucking presumptuous.’

‘Nah, I just know you better than your fucking lackeys. I bet Sam asked you if you needed a nice full-fat latte _every fucking hour_ today, didn’t she.’

‘Watch it.’

‘I’m paying the wee girl a compliment. She’s good. She’s just not me.’ A touch of smugness. Malcolm opens his eyes wide and incredulous at the ceiling.

‘No, she doesn’t give cheesegrater blowjobs, she’s got a degree, she’s from an area with a higher ratio of fucking normal people to stabbing victims – I’d say she’s all in all the better one for me, politically. Not that I’m an expert.’

Jamie does a breathy whisper-version of his hyena-cackle, which turns into a yawn halfway. Malcolm hears a creaking sound and guesses he’s lain down, most likely without undressing, dirty shoes on the bed. For that alone, he’s very fucking fortunate Malcolm’s not there.

‘I wish you were here.’

‘I know,’ Malcolm grumbles, without thought. Jamie sighs.

‘I really _fucking_ hate being - away.’

He hauls the covers up over his chest with his free hand and wearily considers this. It is too late and Jamie’s had just a bit too much to drink to tell him off, or for his own first instinct to be telling him off; he would if he was here, wrapping arms around his waist, dropping a kiss where Malcolm’s neck met his shoulder and mumbling perilously about love. Now, it just feels cruel and fucking empty anyway. Malcolm clears his throat a little and murmurs what he reckons is a neutral affirmative.

Jamie perks up a bit on the other end. ‘You do?’

‘Jesus, that was the fucking point of this, wasn’t it? Aren’t you recording this to wank over in your miserable fucking _gay_ old age?’

‘No,’ says Jamie, sounding genuinely offended. There’s some affronted rustling of sheets, then, quieter: ‘I don’t know what I’d do without your stupid fucking corpse.’

‘Probably be happily married and running some nice sweet-nothing of a union into the ground.’ Malcolm pauses, tracing his mouth with one finger. This is rare, very occasional ground for them to tread – it also feels somewhat safer, doing this with two phones and hundreds of miles between them, which is in itself unsettling. He suddenly wonders if his landline’s entirely secure.

It’s like Jamie’s got a radio connection to the inside of his head, wee psycho-telepathic twat. ‘Hush, and stop fretting your auld head. You’ll go as bald as Nicholson and then I won’t want you anymore.’

‘Sure, son.’

‘I’m serious.’ He huffs a breath. ‘Okay. Go to sleep.’

‘Yeah, that’s going very fucking well, I’ll get back to you sometime in the next fucking century when we’ve finally gone into Opposition.’

‘Nah, you’ll be fine. Just pretend I’m not away.’

‘It’s the peace that’s doing my head in.’

‘I’ll stay on the line.’

‘And fucking _breathe_ on speaker, yeah – no. Go away, I said I want you in on all the eight AMs. You shouldn’t be fucking drinking.’

‘I’m in _Dublin_. I’m participating in a better-than-communion national fucking tradition. This is how they do politics, anyway, same as us.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm sure Gerry Adams hasnae thought of that one yet.'

‘Right, right, right. Love you.’

Malcolm lets his eyes close again. He’s aware of Jamie waiting on the other end, aforementioned familiar mouth-breathing gone quiet.

‘Okay,’ he says, slow. ‘Love you too.’

He can hear Jamie smile on the other end, and it’s completely fucking worth the giddying twist in his stomach that comes on the few occasions he’s actually staggeringly tired enough to say this. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

‘You’ll do no such fucking thing. You’ve got _work_ to do.’

‘Aye. I’ll ring you this time tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be asleep.’

‘Nah, you won’t,’ Jamie muses. ‘But Tuesday, you will be after I’m through with you. When _I_ say so, but. You’ll get your good night’s sleep, at least, guaranteed.’

Malcolm rubs the heel of his free hand slowly against the lines of his forehead and twists his mouth at the ceiling, pleased. ‘We’ll see about that, cunt.’

‘Can’t wait. Right. Nighty night, Malc.’

‘Night night. Sleep tight.’

The phone clicks messily, like Jamie’s fumbled at the buttons, and then he’s gone and left Malcolm with the airless dark room. He lets the phone slip through his fingers and, after a moment, rolls onto his side facing the empty pillow dented by Jamie’s head.

Tuesday, his weary brain reminds him, is only two sleeps away.


End file.
